O' Children
by Sublime Rubbish
Summary: "She didn't think it possible to love Harry more than in this moment."   Early chapters are kid friendly. Later chapters include mature language and dark content, unsuitable for the wee ones. H/Hr  Hr/R. Future pairings possible.
1. And of All the Words in the Entire World

_Disclaimers: __Harry Potter 'verse not mine, though I would seriously bid very high on eBay for it. Alas, no money is made by the loving abuse of this fandom. _

_O' Children is owned by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds. I'm just wantonly mistreating it without any profit or gain of any kind (except playing on repeat while writing this.)_

_Author's Notes: __Songfic, but only for the first chapter. Altered versions of scenes from HP:TDH1. Back story blends both the books and the movie (so I apologize for continuity hiccups.) If I get ample encouragement and some time, I plan on continuing this little story beyond this scene. Alas, though artistically I would've like the song sections to be left justified as to seem like its playing in the background, this thing would not let me. Blast!  
><em>

_H/Hr AND R/Hr. Other pairings possible in future chapters. _

_Without saying: If you're not into it, don't read. _

_Read and review, please! This is my __VERY first fanfic after many years of fanfic readership and secret scribbling in notebooks (What's that, you ask?). _

_I have no beta at the moment and am still brushing the cobwebs off the writing muscle, so keep that in mind. _

_Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>**: **And of All the Words in the Entire World.

**Words:** 3,553

**Rating:** M – minor adult themes, but nothing my 10 year old niece couldn't handle.

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><p><em> Pass me that lovely little gun<br>My dear, my darting one_

_The cleaners are coming, one by one  
>You don't even want to let them start<br>_

She blames Harry, if only a little bit, for Ronald leaving. Though there is more than enough blame left over for Ron, if he ever dares to show his face again. She has taken to listening to Potterwatch on the wireless, continuing Ron's tireless vigil. The same vigil which had driven Harry nearly to the brink a few weeks prior. It would serve as his only punishment, she had decided. Her only indictment to him of what they had lost because of this journey; of what she had lost.

_They are knocking now upon your door  
>They measure the room, they know the score<em>

Three weeks later, she still refuses to say his name out loud.

_They're mopping up the butcher's floor  
>Of your broken little hearts<em>

Her face presses against the deep warble of music beside her, as if to keep warm. A song from another life—a Muggle one—filled with the sublime rubbish of an unexceptional adolescence. A life without Hogwarts. Without Magic. Without Ron or Harry. The thought cuts through her, plucking a melancholy chord to the tune of the music. She keeps her face to the wireless, the tears threatening her carefully constructed mask of indifference.

_O children_

She feels him, more than sees him, softly pad over to her, hands outstretched. She looks up, peering at him sideways through pieces of hair and heartache. His hands are warm and slightly calloused as he takes both of hers, lightly tugging her to her feet and towards the center of the tent. He reaches out, his fingers gently probing the material of her collar, searching for the locket. Her eyes scrunch together slightly, but she says nothing. Harry unclasps it and tosses it aside, his bright green eyes never leaving her brown ones. She had been wearing it all day and where it had made Harry bitterly impatient and Ron brutally paranoid, wearing the locket brought upon Hermione an unbearable loneliness. With the locket gone, it was like surfacing from a frozen lake.

_Forgive us now for what we've done  
>It started out as a bit of fun<em>

He begins to move, reticently at first. One foot here. Another sway there. Awkward, yet impossibly charming in his awkwardness-even this close to death. He is always thinking of others. Always the one with the "saving people thing," no matter the costs.

The corner of her mouth twitches upwards and she shakes her head, trying not to crack a smile. She wonders how many people would hazard a guess that the "Boy Who Lived" is a rubbish dancer.

_Here, take these before we run away  
>The keys to the gulag<em>

As Harry pulls her along, moving her arms like a marionette, she can't help but think back to that day. She plays it over and over in her head as she would turn an object over in her hands to see it from a different angle. The row had almost been more than she could bear. The look in Ron's eyes as he asked her to choose, finally and bitterly verbalizing his fears and insecurities after what seemed like a life time of playing the funny man and the sidekick. She had seen something so dark in that hard gaze. She saw for a second what they could have become in this war had they been other people, living other lives.

Had they not had each other.

Didn't Ron understand? Didn't he know how much they both meant to her? Harry needed her and Hermione needed to be here, with him. She had felt in those first few weeks on the run that their collective relationship had moved beyond mere friendship. It was more than loyalty or love that pushed her forward now. It was something inexpressible and indefatigable and yet so tangible that when she woke up in the morning it all but pressed her back down into her cot. They had made a choice on that tower: to see this through to the end.

_O children_

They were tied now…no matter the ending.

_Lift up your voice, lift up your voice_

And as the weeks bleed into months, she notices a change in Harry. Subtle, but still there. In the middle of all this madness, he had become an adult. More than even that, actually. He had finally accepted his place in this world and in this war; as a man, as a wizard, and especially as a war hero marked for death. They both had, really; piecing together a rather unusual domestic simplicity in spite of their lives as wanted Undesirables.

As she falls asleep at night, holding the wireless, she realizes that there is so much past behind them and what seems like so little future ahead. At the crisp age of 17, she wonders if she had lived all the life that she was going to. And yet here she is, hoping to see tomorrow. Hoping to grow old with him. Her friend. Her brave. Obstinate. Wonderfully kind. Unbearably selfless. Hopelessly famous best friend, Harry James Potter.

He and his impossibly green eyes are the only color left now, even when the world is nothing but shades of ash.

_Children  
>Rejoice, rejoice<em>

The swell in the music invades her senses again, bringing her back to the tent and to a rather unexpected revelation. In that moment between the ticks and tocks of the invisible clock winding down their lives she makes a decision to bring herself front and center in the present. No more hiding behind her cleverness or her books. She once told Harry, back in the very beginning, that there are more important things in this world—friendship and bravery. She would move forward willingly and forcefully, if need be, and be damned (pardon her language) if anyone tried to get in her way.

_Here comes Frank and poor old Jim  
>They're gathering round with all my friends<em>

She entwines her fingers with his, twirling slowly, allowing herself to be swept up in the silliness of it all. Harry twirls her again, faster this time. Her head spins and something locked away bubbles up inside of her, spilling out of her lips rather un Hermione-ishly, at least the Hermione of lately. She giggles and Harry smiles broadly, a blast of sunshine in a place full of darkness. She can see it in his eyes that he needs this dance as much as she does and she twirls him rather unceremoniously.

She never really understood why the boys always got to lead on the dance floor, anyway…

_We're older now, the light is dim  
>And you are only just beginning<em>

They turn in circles. Twirling. Swaying. Rocking. Hands over heads and fingers grazing arms and hips and backs. Feet tracing invisible patterns on the dusty floor. She closes her eyes briefly and takes a deeper breath, allowing him to guide her closer to him. She pretends that it is just another Tuesday night in Gryffindor Tower. Scrolls and quills are scattered on the rug by the fire. A half-finished game of Wizards Chess on the solid oak table by the coaches, Ron wearing...

_O children_

Ron.

As Harry's movements slow and his chin finds a place on her shoulder, the music begins to fade. Her face grows solemn and she curses herself for being so foolish as to believe it would be this easy to be free of the burden of their shared destiny.

_We have the answer to all your fears  
>It's short, it's simple, it's crystal dear<em>

Oh, Ronald...

_It's round about, it's somewhere here  
>Lost amongst our winnings<em>

Instinctively, Harry pulls her closer and she presses her face into his neck. He smells of smoke and wool and wet leaves. Hermione wraps her arms around his neck and he returns the movement in kind, both needing to be close to something and someone. The feel of his solid, steady heartbeat pressed to her chest is reassuring and familiar. His neck is warm and slightly stubbly against her temple. He would die for her, she knew. He could die. Voldermort would see to that, if they let him. Harry would too, if he knew it would save them. Her breath hitches at the thought.

_O children_

Harry pulls away, tilting his head quizzically, his hair falling across his scar and into his eyes. She stops, her feet suddenly planted to the ground, heavy from exhaustion and the constant buzz of fear. She reaches up, mussing his hair a bit before pressing it back into place. She really did give him a terrible haircut.

_Lift up your voice, lift up your voice  
>Children<em>

" 'mione..." He grabs her wrist, pulling it down and placing it squarely on his chest near his heart. "The haircut is brilliant. I fancy myself a bit of a rock star with this shag…" He tries to keep it light, but she can feel his heart thumping wildly beneath her fingers. He looks as if he's about to say something more, but remains silent. His eyes search her face for some sort of reaction, but Hermione is thoroughly lost in her loneliness again.

_Rejoice, rejoice_

"Hermione." He says again, pronouncing every syllable of her name as if testing out a new Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean, unsure of its flavor. It snaps her back momentarily.

"I didn't say thank you before."

_The cleaners have done their job on you  
>They're hip to it, man, they're in the groove<em>

_They've hosed you down, you're good as new  
>They're lining up to inspect you<em>

She knits her eyebrows together at the sudden change in topic, "For what, Harry?"

"For sticking with me. For being my friend. For never giving up on me. For everything you've sacrificed…" She knew he meant Ron. And her parents. "I didn't choose this life, but you did." He looks away for a moment, suddenly taking interest in a frayed piece of flannel on her collar.

"I honestly don't know where we'd be without you…so…thank you." He lifts his eyes again. Hermione notices speckles of light reflecting off his irises.

It was such a simple declaration, but the thickness of the emotion behind his words made her eyes begin to water. "Harry…" She sighs, looking down, unable to look at him look at her so earnestly.

_O children_

She didn't think it possible to love Harry more than in this moment.

_Poor old Jim's white as a ghost  
>He's found the answer that was lost<em>

Suddenly, he reaches out and brushes a piece of errant hair behind her ear, tipping her chin up with his other hand so that she is forced to look at him. Her mouth opens slightly, as if the air in the room suddenly rushed out. She has never seen this blazing look in Harry's eyes before. Not at her. Not in a million years. But this is a different place. They are far away from the people they were months before. Far away from Ginny and Ron. From Hogwarts and Dumbledore's Army. From everything that has defined them so carefully during their years at school. It is as if she is looking in the Mirror of Erised, except this one is showing her another path. A slightly different one from the one she is on. Where the hero and heroine win the battle, finding victory in each other's arms. Just like all the story books and fairy tales, Magic or Muggle, she'd always hated as a child for being so improbable.

_We're all weeping now, weeping because  
>There ain't nothing we can do to protect you<em>

Then he does something inexplicable and so completely illogical, which for Hermione Granger, the cleverest witch of their age, is saying something. Harry Potter: her best friend, Ron's best friend, Ginny's always almost love, the Chosen One…kisses her.

_O children  
>Lift up your voice, lift up your voice<br>Children  
>Rejoice, rejoice<em>

Hermione knows that the _Oxford English Dictionary_ contains full entries for 171,476 words currently in use and about 47,156 obsolete words that no one uses anymore—that is not including all the words in the Magical Lexicon—and between all of them she could not form one. Single. Word. It is the first time she has ever been completely and utterly relieved of her ability to speak.

Instead her brain buzzes with a sort of primal awareness:

Of Harry's lips being surprisingly soft and small against her mouth.

Of the way his eyelashes look like lace against his pale cheeks (she is too stunned to even close her eyes).

Of his hands gripping the shirt covering her arms a little too tightly.

Of the smell of burning wood from the fire dwindling outside.

Of the hissing of the wireless as more news of deaths in the Wizarding World are announced.

Of the rustle of the worn pages of the _Tales of the Beedle the Bard_ as they flap slowly in the draft of the tent door.

Of the locket pulsing eerily behind them, its metallic heartbeat speeding up with each passing second, fed by the sudden charge of tension in the room.

Of the feeling of being a child and a grown-up all at once.

And of knowing that there is no going back from this moment.

_Hey little train! We are all jumping on  
>The train that goes to the Kingdom<br>We're happy, Ma, we're having fun_

_And the train ain't even left the station_

Harry pulls away, his face hovering inches from hers. He peers at her in that impossibly silent way of his. He says nothing, though his hands are still wrapped tightly around her forearms. For a moment, Hermione thinks she has lost her hearing. The world is so quiet, as if holding its breath.

_Hey, little train! Wait for me!  
>I once was blind but now<br>I see Have you left a seat for me?  
>Is that such a stretch of the imagination?<em>

After a few seconds, he lets go and takes a step backwards to give her room. His chest rises and falls rapidly beneath the thick grey wool of his sweater, slightly out of breath, but he looks at her evenly, fearlessly. Though still in shock, Hermione knows instantly (or perhaps she always known) that Harry will never hurt her or leave her. That the kiss, though unexpected, has been some time coming and did not come lightly to Harry. While Ron is passionate and unpredictable, he is still and immutable. Her constant. He knew, just as well as she, that this kiss between friends—best friends—is as perilous as the battle outside their door. Yet, he kissed her anyway and in this kiss holds a delicate truth.

There is hope.

In the face of what seems like a deep and ceaseless night, these are the things that would shine on.

_Hey little train! Wait for me!  
>I was held in chains but now I'm free<br>I'm hanging in there, don't you see  
>In this process of elimination<em>

The wireless glitches and blares a loud cacophonous note of noise before settling back into the gentle thrum of voices. Hermione starts as if having been woken up suddenly from a strange dream.

And just as suddenly the analytical part of her mind begins to re-engage.

And just as she used to in the face of a puzzle she didn't know instantly how to solve, she panics.

Harry opens his mouth to speak, uncertainty dancing like flickering flames in his eyes. He reaches out for her hand. "I…"

She steps back and does the one thing she swore she'd never do to Harry, who has been hurt by so many already. Hermione walks away—straight out of the tent—palming her wand as she goes.

"_L-l-lumos_," she manages.

_Hey little train! We are all jumping on  
>The train that goes to the Kingdom<br>We're happy, Ma, we're having fun  
>It's beyond my wildest expectation<em>

She barely makes it out of hearing range before she begins to cry. She keeps walking, however, planting one foot in front of the next until she's nearly to the edge of the enchantments encircling the surrounding area. The dam has broken now, threatening to drown her. She sinks to the ground facing the dark of the forest, unaware of the damp ground or the jagged rocks or the whistle of the wind as it cuts through her thin top. She cries out of guilt, out of love, out of hope, out of fear, out of frustration, out of hunger, and out of cold. She cries harder than that terrible night she saw Ron and Lavender share their first (entirely too overzealous, if you ask her) kiss. Or the day they buried Dumbledore in his white tomb. Even harder than the day she sent her parents packing to Australia, their bags filled with mementos where she had no place.

_Hey little train! We are all jumping on  
>The train that goes to the Kingdom<br>We're happy, Ma, we're having fun  
>And the train ain't even left the station<em>

And of all the words in the entire world that Hermione knows, and would happily give the definition of if prompted, all she can think is:

**_Bugger._**


	2. To Cease Movement

_Disclaimers: Harry Potter is still not mine. I get only perverse pleasure from using its characters in my writing. Jo Rowling is the only one who makes money here._

_Author's Note:_

_H/Hr AND R/Hr. Angst, ahoy!  
><em>

_This chapter was a bit tough since it's still pretty exposition heavy. I'm still fleshing out their voices and for some reason Harry is very difficult for me! I will be moving to more action/dialogue in the next few chapters, so stay with me.  
><em>

_This is my VERY first fanfic after many years of fanfic readership and secret scribbling in notebooks. _

_Thanks to everyone for sending their love and encouragement. It's such a rush to hear that someone enjoyed my story!_

_I have no beta, but appreciate feedback and encouragement._

_Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: To Cease Movement<br>**

**Words:** 2,186 words

**Rating:** M

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><p>She thinks he can't hear her sobs over the wintery din outside, but he can. With so little in the way of a distraction out here in the sticks, Harry's hearing has become uncommonly keen. Useful for hunting rabbits and avoiding surprise attacks by Death Eaters and Snatchers. Useless when trying to not think of a particular bushy haired companion bawling her eyes out meters away.<p>

After the initial shock of her abrupt exit wears off, Harry does what any self-respecting bloke does in a situation like this: he goes on with his evening, acting like nothing significant has happened. Not his most adult decision, by any means, but he's feeling particularly self-indulgent tonight and decides to give them both space to reassess their…new situation.

If Ron were here he'd have shaken his ginger head and mumbled something about girls being bloody bonkers…

Harry moves quickly off the thought of his best mate, the underlying sting of betrayal and anger he still feels towards him and his absence instantly clouding his already aphotic thoughts. Ron made his choice. It just hadn't been the one he thought...hoped...he would make. The thought of that night sours his stomach. Hermione's frantic cries as she ran after Ron ringing through his ears, like echoes.

He's probably warming his git hands by a roaring hearth at the Burrow right now. Stomach full of roast chicken and treacle tart. A good nights rest behind him.

What a prat, Harry muses.

He lifts his hand absently to tug on the locket, only to give himself a start; he'd forgotten he'd taken it off. He walks over to the table where the it lay. Pressing both hands on either side of it, he leans forward until he can feel its icy aura press against his face like a Dementor's Kiss. Harry peers at the locket intently. His eyes follow the curves of the S embedded within its green stone inlay, willing it to speak to him outright and give him an answer. After a few moments of heavy silence, he lets out an exasperated noise. With one hand, he sweeps it off the table and tosses the chain over his neck, tucking it into his shirt so that it lies against the skin of his chest. It burns where it touches him, but he relishes the diversion. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he'd admit that he doesn't mind wearing the locket as much as the others. Though well aware of its ability to manipulate their emotions to its own end, he does find that wearing it offers him a brief reprieve from being the "Boy Who Lived." For years, he'd gone without the freedom of being allowed some amount imperfection. His path—his destiny—hangs like an iron halo on his head. Even well before he had learned the story behind his scar and the place it assured him in history, he had been stuck somewhere between birth and manhood, never quite allowed to be a child. Wearing the locket allows him to be curt, moody, and tormented—the darkest parts of himself. Or something more commonly known as a teenager.

He hears a hiccuping cough just outside the tent doors and his hand automatically moves to his wand. He can see Hermione's delicate shadow flicker as their meager fire surges in and out against the battering of the wind.

She does not enter.

He does not expect her to.

He knows she needs time and right now, in this forsaken place, he has all the time in the world to offer her. Instead, he busies himself with simple tasks around the tent: kettle on the stove, books in a tidy pile on the table, camp beds prepped for the evening. Nearly an hour passes and Harry finds himself slumped over the table, mug empty, sorting through the pile of books teetering dangerously on the table top. He sorts through each one carefully, tapping his wand gently on page after page, casting a simple spell Hermione had created to search the texts for keywords or concepts related to their search for the Horcruxes.

"More tea?"

Startled, Harry's head snaps up. His hand shoots out, slamming into the mug, sending it flying across the table and towards the floor.

"Bollocks!" He stands up abruptly, sending his chair tipping backwards.

"_Desine motus,_" Hermione says weakly. Her wand emits a soft white light that connects with the mug, freezing it in mid air.

Neither moves for a moment. Harry is transfixed by the floating mug, his eyes dilating like camera lenses as the short burst of adrenaline pumping through his body fades. Hermione fidgets with her wand, unsure of what to do. Finally, she stuffs her wand back into her pocket then reaches out to pluck the mug from mid air and return it to its place on the table.

"I didn't mean to startle you."

He turns to look at her. She looks a bit peaky; her face a pinker shade of gray. Her brown eyes are bloodshot and her hair is barely contained by a thick band of elastic. She has both hands in her pockets as she shuffles from one foot to another, waiting for him to respond.

"You seem...a bit on edge."

He peers at her incredulously. "Well spotted, Hermione."

"R-right…" Her voice trembles a bit and she shifts awkwardly, trying not to cry again.

"Right."

They stand rooted to their spots, trying not to look at one another. It strikes him that in their entire relationship they have never had one awkward moment. Disagreements, yes; fights even. But in the end, the one person they often went to for comfort and advice was each other. Harry doesn't know how many times he'd find her after a bad row in the Gryffindor Common Room, waiting for him, with big wet eyes and open arms. With Hermione, everything had been so easy. As far as Harry is concerned-up until about two hours ago-their relationship had been near perfect. As close as he and Ron were…are…Hermione and he share something more than mere kinship. She is the other half of his mind. He'd be dead if it weren't for her brilliant insights and careful research. This awkwardness between them is an entirely new and, for the first time, Harry feels guilty.

"Hermione, I just want to say…

"Harry, I just want to say…"

They both babble at once, taking a step towards one another until they are nearly touching. The locket pulses heatedly between them, coloring his mood at once. He notices the dip of her mouth when she tries not to purse her lips in frustration. And the gold flecks of her hair from their many hours out in the sun. She is breathing heavily out of her mouth and her eyes hang down staring at the scant space between them.

Fearing what else he might do tonight to jeopardize their already tenuous friendship, Harry takes a clumsy step away from her. The backs of his legs hit the fallen chair, causing them to buckle and landing him in a backwards heap on the tent floor. He coughs as a cloud of displaced dusts fills the space where he once stood. He looks at up Hermione through dirty glasses.

Hermione's mouth forms a small "o," her eyes wide with surprise and something else. Delight?

And then she starts to laugh. Big, gulping, heaving cackles. She bends forward from the force of it, her hands steadying against her knees.

Harry thinks she has finally gone mental.

"Hermione…" He asks impatiently after a few minutes, slightly annoyed that she is laughing at him.

She stands up, wiping her eyes with the back of her shirtsleeves.

"I'm so sorry, Harry. I don't know what's gotten into me!" She lets out another laugh, holding up her hand against her mouth, embarrassed that she would be laughing at a time like this.

Harry rights himself, slapping his jeans and sweater with open hands to clean off the dust. He's relieved at the break in the tension, but the incessant pulsing of the locket detracts from what should be a light moment. He yanks the chain off his neck and throws the locket down on the table.

"That's better," he sighs. He looks at Hermione, her expression somewhere between fear and delirium.

"Alright, Hermione, you go first..." He pushes his sweater up his arms. "_Recti_."

Harry taps his wand against the air in front of him and the chair soundlessly rights itself, returning to its spot. He gestures for Hermione to sit and she nods her thanks. He is resolved to allow her to guide the conversation and so sits quietly across from her. She avoids eye contact, reaching out to grip the recently rescued mug between both hands. She says nothing, visibly gathering her thoughts as she gazes intently at the crack cutting through the handle of it. Eventually, she looks up, her eyes a bit harder than they were before.

He can tell she has made a decision about something.

"Harry, I know you've been under a lot of stress, especially since R…well, you know. We're both perpetually hungry, exhausted, and being asked to do impossible things for the safety of our world. It's mad, really. And it's perfectly normal to need to find comfort in all of that. In fact, I'm surprised this hasn't happened sooner."

Harry's mouth opens and closes wordlessly. He had not expected her to go this route. He takes a breath, choosing his words carefully.

"Hermione, I don't think you…"

"No, Harry. That is what happened. _Exactly _what happened. We are best friends, closer than friends really. We've been wandering around the countryside for months now, you and I. We are all we have. I think it's best that we just see it for what it was, a moment of weakness fed by circumstances and loneliness."

Harry has no idea how to respond to what she is saying to him, but he can see something in the way that she is looking at him-pleading and desperate. In typical fashion, she is clinging to the only thing she knows will bring order to her universe: logic. Pure, simple, and cold.

He's surprised, and hurt, by her frosty evaluation of the situation. Harry has no immediate answers for his actions, but "a moment of weakness" was not likely to be one of them. Still, he can tell that she is in a precarious place and worries that if he presses the subject he'd be asking her to question a lifetime of established protocol between them. Right now, he needs his Hermione back. The rest will have to right itself later.

He nods, "Yeah…a moment of weakness. Totally normal. Right."

His words sound empty to him, but Hermione beams at him gratefully. Her shoulders relax a bit and she reaches out to pull a book towards her.

"Now where were you? I had a thought earlier today about the keywords we've been looking for and wonder if we need to be a bit more creative. The wizards writing these books would not have wanted references to such dark magic to be so easily referenced. Did you search for…"

Hermione starts to list off her ideas, but Harry is barely listening.


	3. Constant Vigilance

_Disclaimers__: Blah, blah, Harry Potter's not mine, blah._

_Author's Note:__ H/Hr AND R/Hr. I swear Ron will show up soon..._

_Finally, action! _

_Sorry for the short chapter, but I was in Vegas and writing fanfic was far from my brain. I also plan on going back and re-editing previous sections to clean up a lot of stuff that got missed the first thousand passes. (I seriously need a Beta!)_

_Also, sorry for the upload fail earlier this week. Hopefully that didn't cause any problems.  
><em>

_Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Three:<strong> Constant Vigilance**  
><strong>

**Words:** 1,626**  
><strong>

**Rating:** M

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><p>"Errrrrrgggggggggggggh!"<p>

"What? What is it? Is it your scar?"

"You are stepping on my cross trainers, Hermione. And you keep putting an elbow in my rib cage."

Indistinct clattering.

Loud thump.

"Ow! Harry, that's my hair."

"Bloody hell, Hermione, how long do we have to hide in here?"

"Well, if someone hadn't wanted fresh eggs this morning we would not be in this situation. I am a witch, not a miracle worker. I did the best that I could to find a farm far from a densely populated area."

"...in the middle of Snatcher territory, from the looks of it."

Another loud thump.

Sigh.

"They are moving farther and farther into Muggle territory every day."

Thump.

Bang.

Swearing.

"Really? That's all you can come up with? Ron would be personally disappointed in your lack of creativity."

"Don't say his name."

"And why not?"

"J-just don't, okay?"

"We're going to have to talk about him sometime. He went back to the Burrow. He didn't die."

"Harry! Don't say such things!"

Heavy silence.

"I just would rather not speak his name, is all."

"Oh, I'm sorry. So 'He Who Shall Not Be Named' would be disappointed in your lack of creativity."

"HAR...Harry!"

"What?"

Rustling.

Muffled voices.

Rapping noises.

"Shhhhh! I think they're nearby..."

More voices.

Creaking.

Doors closing.

Footfalls on the gravel outside.

Then a loud crack.

"I think they've gone." Harry whispers. His words are hot against her ear, causing a shiver to radiate outwards from her ears all the way down to her toes.

The two of them have been trapped in the broom cupboard for nearly twenty five minutes, waiting out a particularly persistent squad of Snatchers. Plenty of time for Hermione to stew darkly on their close call. Careful to the point of obsessiveness, she typically does exhaustive research before they venture out beyond the protective spells surrounding their camp. Hours mapping out ways in and out. Countless lists of items, prioritized by urgent need and memorized to the letter, in case they come across the opportunity to refill their supplies. Evenings spent practicing spells. Anything that would help them avoid capture and perhaps pick up a pumpkin pasty on the way out.

War has made Hermione obsessive compulsive and borderline paranoid for their safety. The burden of keeping Harry Potter alive against mounting odds weights heavily on her conscience every waking, and sometimes non-waking, moment of the day.

Thankfully, Harry has stopped taking the mickey out of her for being so neurotic about it all.

With the burgeoning tension between them, Hermione has been, at best distracted, and at worst distraught. She tiptoes around Harry as if negotiating a maze full of Erumpent horns. Though she will never admit it, the night that he kissed her, runs through her head interminably. Options and possibilities-the statistics of her life up until that moment-run like electronic tickers through her brain. She barely sleeps now. She is constantly on edge. Her words to him, like daggers, poking holes in her concentration. It was one was the hardest things she had ever had to do, but as necessary as Essence of Dittany is to treating a splinch. Burning it shut so that healing may begin.

"I think I have an Extendable Eye in here somewhere..." Hermione shuffles through the cavernous beaded purse she keeps on her person at all times. The sound of clanking metal and creaking wood competes with the sound of her muttering.

"I know its in here somewh-icckkk. Drats. The books fell over again...I just alphabetized those...Okay, I found it." She scrunches her nose as she pulls it out, her fingers pinching it gingerly.

Harry makes a face. "It's a wonder that this particular item never took off."

Hermione tucks the slimey eyeball through a crack in the wall at its base. It slides forward a bit of its own volition leaving a trail of goo. Hermione presses the other end, a flesh-colored monocle, to her eye. The eye slides back and forth surveying the room. As far as she can tell, the Snatchers are gone.

"All clear," she says finally.

Harry lifts his wand and taps it against the wall. "_Finite Incantatem._"

The wood in the door moans as it begins to reshape back into a door. He immediately turns the knob, before it even fully returns to its shape. They stumble out, blinking against the mid morning sun.

"You alright?" Harry asks as he dusts the cobwebs off his sweater. She nods and walks around the room, assessing what supplies they could scavenge from this home. She makes a mental note to leave a bit of money on the table before they leave. Though from the thin sheen of dust on everything, the farm has been abandoned for some time now. All that's left are portraits of family members staring wide and still from their frames.

Hermione stops in front of a bookshelf, thumbing through a large book worn with repeated use. Harry steps behind her to look over her shoulder. She doesn't move, her eyes greedily devouring the words. It has been a long time since she has read anything that was not about Dark Lords or magic.

"Anything good?"

She twitches a little at his proximity, but does not dare move. Lately, he's been testing the fences, invading her sense of personal space every chance he gets. She takes a shallow breath and reminds herself: constant vigilance.

"Yes. I mean, no. Not in terms of our search. It's a book I used to love as a child. My mum and dad would read it to me at night when I couldn't sleep..." Her words catch in her throat, but she manages to keep still enough to not cry.

Constant vigilance.

She presses the book to her face, inhaling reverently. The smell of parchment lifts her spirits just a little. For a few seconds, she allows herself to pretend that they are back in the library at Hogwarts. Safe. Surrounded by impenetrable stone walls and magic older than Dumbledore. Full after a feast and eager (well, she would be anyway) to start their studies...

She feels her back grow cold. When she lowers the book, Harry is gone. She places it back on the shelf and continues to sift through the debris of someone else's life.

She hears a glass break in another room, her head snapping in its direction.

"'arry?"

She senses movement in the periphery of her vision, somewhere outside the window.

"Harry, where are you?"

Stepping forward as quietly as possible, she toes her way towards the doorway to the room beyond. She slips her hand in her jacket pocket, wrapping her fingers tightly around her wand.

"This is _not _amusing, Harry Potter."

Silence.

She furrows her brow, a leaden feeling taking root in her stomach.

"Harry, if you do not show yourself this instant. I'll..."

"You'll what?"

Before she can pull out her wand, the hairs on her arms stand up on end as if she had come in contact with a live wire. A hunched figure in a dark hooded jumper fills the doorway, his gnarled wand pointing straight at her neck.

"Or. You'll. What?"

With each word, he stabs the air with his wand and Hermione's throat constricts painfully. An invisible noose around her neck, stealing her breath.

She tries to lift her own wand, but spots start to darken her vision. Her fingers tingle as her heart fails to pump the blood to her hands and her grip begins to loosen.

She thinks she is going to pass out, but manages to remain upright despite the overwhelming urge to collapse. She only just notices that her toes are barely scraping the ground. A strangled noise escapes her lips, a bit of drool sliding past the edge of her mouth.

She wonders, not for the first time, if this is the place where she will die.

"That's what I thought."


	4. No Matter the Ending

_Disclaimers: The magic of Hogwarts + Harry Potter are not mine. I just borrow them from time to time without any monetary gain.  
><em>

_Following characters ARE all mine: Ulysses, Janus, and the rest of the Snatchers. Muahahahaha.  
><em>

_Author's Note: H/Hr AND R/Hr. Adult language and mature/graphic content ahead. _

_Ahh. Two weeks went by fast! Sorry for the tardiness in posting. I really am trying to get a chapter out once a week, if I can. I saw the final chapter. Wasn't as H/Hr friendly as the first, but gives me plenty of angst to settle this story between the Golden Trio as something more realistic than just my dangerous ponderings. We'll see where we end up! Suffice to say, we have a lot to deal with before that happens.  
><em>

_I have not been given proper love out to the people who have posted reviews/added my story as a favorite. You guys make this easy. You make it too easy. I should be applying for new jobs and instead I keep writing cause I want you to get more sooner. Keep it coming. I look forward to hearing from each one of you, even if I don't get a chance to respond._

_Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Four:<strong> No Matter the Ending

**Words: **3,813**  
><strong>

**Rating:** MA

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><p>So this is what war feels like, Harry reflects.<p>

Not the first thought in his head when he regains consciousness, but one of many that fight for attention with the painful throbbing of the bludger sized knock on his head that rendered him unconscious in the first place. He contemplates closing his eyes and giving in to the deafening call of sweet sleep amongst the rats and roaches of the cellar he's being kept in. Alas, Harry Potter finds himself incorrigibly Harry Potter: the once and future king of never being able to give up on anything, least of whom, Hermione.

_Hermione._

The rush of images and sounds from the last few hours hit him like the business end of a blast ended skrewt and he finds himself on his hands and knees, vomiting the meager contents of his last meal on the stone floor. Spent, he presses his forehead to a relatively clean patch of the cold floor and gathers his thoughts. His wand is gone, "confiscated" by the mangy crew of misfits that surprised them at the farm. They even took his sneakers and his sweater—the green one with the H on the sleeve that Mrs. Weasely knitted for him one Christmas—leaving him with nothing but a thin white shirt and a pair of threadbare socks to keep him from freezing to death. Surprisingly, he estimates they've been in captivity for at least a few hours now. Several hours longer than they should've been if Voldermort had been alerted to their capture.

There is at least hope in that, he thinks.

"_We got 'em, Uly . We can get that bread and honey we's been speaking of since we were little. Real gold! Let's go to the Malfoys' and claim our prize."_

Harry's ears prick upwards at the reference to the Malfoys. He crawls slowly toward the sound of the voices that are leaking in from a small grate high up on a wall.

"_Hermione, darling, could you pass me the butter?"_

He sits up suddenly, a wave of nausea overwhelming all forms of logical thought. He curses himself for allowing them to be caught unaware on that farm. And by bloody Snatchers, nonetheless. The dregs of even the foulest society that has been trying to "clean" the streets of the Wizarding world of Muggle-borns and Blood Traitors. After everything, there seems to be one inalienable truth in the chaos of his life: any plans, even the most well-intentioned, fail. Epically.

So here they are, in danger, because of him.

Again.

"_Where is he? What did you do with him?"_

"_Ah. Yes. He's fine. Just resting, last I saw of him."_

"_If you touch him…If you harm a hair on his head…"_

"_I think we've already established that you won't do anything, m'dear. Since you've gotten yourself so unceremoniously captured, there is little threat you can send my way to convince me that you pose anything more than an attractive nuisance to me and my fine band of Magical Enforcers."_

"_Thugs. That's what you are. Thugs, cowards, and traitors."_

The corner of Harry's mouth twitches upwards. Though quite dangerous to antagonize their captors, there is some perverse triumph in calling them out for the villains they are to their faces.

"_Your opinion is noted, Ms. Granger, but considering the situation you are in it would be wise to be a little nicer to me. Those so-called "thugs, cowards, and traitors" you so harshly condemn are at my control. And some of them have not seen a pretty young woman in weeks…"_

A sudden rage fills Harry, blazing up through his belly like Fiendfyre. His hands squeeze into tight fists as images of Hermione at the mercy of a group of fetid men with ill intentions on their mind, fill the darkest spaces of his thoughts. He would rather die than let that happen.

He knows she likely feels the same.

The silence from upstairs is oppressive. He can only imagine the look of controlled fear on Hermione's face right now. If Ron were here, he would have torn the door off its hinges by now, always doing before working out the consequences first, as Hermione would often remind him. A kind of blind heroism that Harry admires, but has gotten them into a fair bit of trouble in the past. But Ron's not here, and instead Harry must bear witness to how casually this man, Uly, dabbles in the loss of innocence. Though Harry can easily get behind the idea of ripping through dungeon walls until he gets Hermione safe and sound, he knows that he is outmanned and wandless, with little in the way of intel on what awaits him outside of the cellar door. His odds are once again, not in his favor.

Harry is really tired of the odds never being in his favor.

"_Uly–Scabior and the Were is lookin' for a update to our situations. Should I tell 'em about the boy? I 'ear Lord Voldy is mad as a hatter lookin' for 'im. We'll be 'eros! I reckon even get me own squad..."_

"_Shut it, Janus. We will not be informing the Dark Lord of anything, yet. If we play our cards right I think we can do better than be some lowly pawns on the front lines, doing the dirty work for those masked tossers back at Malfoys'. Harry Potter is exactly the bargaining chip we need to make our own fortunes in this new society he's building. It's time we show a little bit of our strength. Call back the others. Tell them to get their arses back to base."_

"_An' the girl? The boys will be right 'ungry when they get 'ome."_

"_Patience, brother. We'll need her to control the boy." _

"_And 'en?"_

"_And then, we take what's rightfully ours."_

_xXxXxXx_

The door groaned as it opened, spilling the cloudy light of a single bulb across Harry's face. He blinks, temporarily blinded, but recovers quickly enough to brace himself in a defensive stance for what may be coming.

"H-Harry?"

His whole body involuntarily slackens at Hermione's tremulous voice. The relief he feels to have her close is beyond words. "Thank God, Hermione…"

They launch at each other, arms and hands reaching out for a solid body to hold on to.

"Oh, Harry. I thought for sure that they had given you to the Death Eaters. I thought it was all over. I thought you were d-dead."

He crushes her to his chest, burying his face in her mess of hair. She smells of lavender, and ink, and smoke from a dwindling fireplace. Like home, if he thinks about it. He could stand like this forever.

She holds on to him briefly before pressing her palms to his chest, pushing them apart. Her hands bury themselves in his hair, her deft fingers moving gently over bruises and cuts, assessing the damage. She winces when her fingertips graze the now crusted wound to his forehead. Her appraisal over, she sighs, absently pinching the bridge of her nose between her two fingers.

"If only I had my bag or my wand, I could fix this."

Harry can't help but smile. Everything was always a problem to be solved for Hermione.

"It doesn't matter. You're okay. We're alive. That's all that matters."

"Bloody hell it does. It's my fault we're here. I should have never let us go out on that fools errand. For all the bloody things we could've been caught doing, death by breakfast is not the one that I thought would do us in in the end. " Hermione's face is flush with anger and a little bit of embarassment from cursing so much.

"Oh, really? So it has nothing to do with the fact that your best friend happens to be the number one enemy of an evil wizard dead set on killing him and feeding him to his spoiled pet snake?"

Hermione looks at him like he's mad, "Harry!"

"Don't 'Harry' me, Hermione. You know as well as I do that this is most certainly not your fault. If anything, it's mine. I'm the reason why we're here in the first place. If you hadn't met me at Hogwarts in our first year…"

"I'd have found a way. I cannot believe that anything but what happened, would have happened. I'm far from being quixotic Harry, but I am exactly where I need and want to be. "

"You're just saying that because you haven't ever had the opportunity to choose differently."

He cannot believe what is tumbling out of his mouth, but with the stakes suddenly so high he cannot help himself. She looks at him, thunderstruck.

"If things had been different…if I had been sorted into Slytherin or if You Know Who had marked Neville as his equal instead of me that night. It would be him that you would be following into danger, not me."

"Harry Potter, you thick fool. It was always you. _Just _you that we followed. Not the "Chosen One" or the "Boy Who Lived." _You_. This boy who, despite the circumstances of his birth, grew up to be brave and noble and strong. Yes, things would've been different if you had been sorted into Slytherin or if someone else had had to bear the weight of this war on their shoulders, but this is how it all worked out. As for never having a choice… it was always a choice for me. For all of us, actually. Ginny. Ron. Luna. Even Neville… Don't you understand? Every day with you and Ron was a choice that I made, willingly and willfully. The choice to live without you was the one I could never make. "

She looks resolved as she makes her confession, her hands out in supplication.

"Why do you think I stayed when Ronald left? Harry...we are tied, no matter the ending."

In a flash, Harry comes to comprehend what his mother and father not only knew that terrible night that Voldermort came to claim them, but understood. That there are things worth fighting for and then there are things worth dying for. If he could die a thousand deaths so that the people he loved could live just one life, he would do it.

In this, he knew, he would have no choice.

They stand at opposite ends of the cellar winded from the emotional marathon they suddenly find themselves in. Harry watches Hermione's face move through a thousand emotions, finally settling on a look he has only seen a handful of times in full bloom: fierce rebelliousness. Her hands settle on her hips, her shoulders still hunched near her ears.

"Okay." He says finally, the fight that had been in him a moment ago evaporating bit by bit as he allows himself to accept what she has said to him.

Hermione raises an eyebrow, "Okay?"

"Yeah." He nods once. "Okay."

Hermione looks at him utterly defeated. "I will never understand you boys."

Harry laughs for the first time in weeks, forcing her to crack a smile. She crosses her arms over her chest, and cocks her hip.

"Now that that is settled, how in Merlin's name are we getting out of this pickle?"

xXxXxX

"Calm down, Janey. Tell me what happened."

"We's doin' our rounds an' we picked up a ginger 'aired character. Dodgy bloke. Grubby clothes. Beady eyes. Looked like 'em Weasley folk. You know the ones on the Blood Traitor list? Claim to be Stan Shunpike. But Shunpike gotta mug on 'im that I never forget. Owes me honey, that one. I never forget a wanker that owes me money. 'e 'ad no identifications on 'im. "

"And?"

"Tried to bring 'im in. 'e looked worth at least a galleon if 'e was a weasel Weasley, right?"

"Please tell me that there is a point to this story."

"Fast, fucker. 'it me right in the kisser with a spell."

"You brought him in, then?"

"It wasn't me fault!"

"You're joking…"

"Took me bleeding wand!"

Ulysses sighs as a mother would when her child does something only mildly troublesome. He extends his arm to pick at a hangnail on his right hand. Janus waits for a sympathetic response from his brother, but is met with the soft clicking of nail against nail.

"'ello? Anybody there? 'E TOOK ME WAND! The Blood Traitor!"

Uly raises his head only slightly to acknowledge his brother's frustration.

"That's rather unfortunate then."

Janus makes an exasperated noise, crossing his arms (or at least trying to, but his rather large size makes it comically impossible), and begins to pace.

"'Er was one thing. While I was out on the streets, I 'eard some rumors about the boy."

Uly stops what he is doing and looks at his brother, his dark blue eyes narrowing with interest.

"And?"

Encouraged by the sudden interest, Janus throws and arm over Uly's neck, pulling his brother in close to whisper the rest. Uly makes a disgusted sound and pushes him away. Undeterred, Janus continues.

"I 'eard that the Dark Lord is looking for a powerful wand. The most powerful wand of all, the Death Stick…"

"That doesn't surprise me. The Dark Lord is a cunning wizard. The Death Stick, though probably a fairy tale, is a worthy quest for someone as powerful as he. I don't see what that has to do with the boy."

Janus' face is lit up like a Christmas tree. "Well, I 'eard that it's because the boy's wand is unusually powerful. That 'e 'as defeated the Dark Lord with it in past situations and that until 'e gets the Death Stick 'e can't beat the boy."

Ulysses rubs his chin vigorously, considering the information Janus has just revealed to him. This information is dangerous. Dangerous enough to kill for and Uly is fortuitously in the position to be on the right side of the killing. War is a business, an unpleasantly messy one, but a business nonetheless. If Ulysses plays his cards right, he'll be the king of his own princely kingdom; done with all of this tedious Snatcher nonsense once and for all.

"Why don't we find out...shall we?"

xXxXxX

"Did you know that I wanted to be in Ravenclaw?"

"What?"

"When I first found out that I had been accepted to Hogwarts, I did a bit of research. Ravenclaw, of all of the houses, seemed like the most logical place for me."

Harry and Hermione sat facing the door, backs against the wall, a metal plate and a pair of chopsticks between them. They had been given food that could have passed, about a week ago, for something resembling take out food from the rubbish bin and enough dirty water to drink five sips a piece. They are ravenously hungry and sleep deprived to boot, but the Snatchers have left them alone for the most part.

It makes Harry incredibly uneasy.

"I can see that."

"I cried that night after I was sorted into Gryffindor. Did you know that? I put on a brave face because everyone was so excited. But I cried nearly the entire night...I think I cried a lot that first year..."

Harry turns his head to look at Hermione, who is too busy trying to turn the chopsticks into some sort of weapon, to look him in the eyes. "Really?"

"At the time, I thought being daring and chivalrous was something for people who weren't smart enough to keep themselves out of trouble. Why be a hero, when you can be logical instead? At least that's what I had told myself. Fair bit, staying out of trouble, has done for me."

"Not entirely untrue, don't you think? "

"No, but bravery and risk taking can be smart too. It's easy to hide behind books and facts; it's hard to stand up for what you believe in. There is worth in that too."

She puts her hands up, one chopstick whittled haphazardly into a blunt point. "What do you think?"

"Brilliant."

She smiles, triumphant.

"What is it, exactly?"

Her face falls.

"Well, it's obvious isn't it?" She looks at him expectantly.

"Well…it looks like a…um. Pointy chopstick?"

He physically braces for impact, both eyes dramatically squeezed shut. After a tick, he opens one eye. She's sitting there staring at her handiwork, puzzled.

"You know, I guess it is."

Harry opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the scurry of footfalls on the stone stairs outside their door. He gestures towards Hermione to hide the chopsticks under her shirt and to get on her feet in case there is a chance to rush their captors and attempt an escape. She nods obediently, mirroring his movements, pressing her back as tightly against the wall, arms raised in a defensive position.

The door emits a low wail as it is pushed open and Ulysses stands, flanked by two of his raccoon eyed Snatcher mates, with his gnarled wand pointing at Harry's neck.

"Looks like you're even more useful to me than I had previously thought, Mr. Potter."

Harry narrows his eyes, taking a step in front of Hermione. She looks quickly between them.

"I'm pretty sure You Know Who would be a little more than upset to find out that you've had custody of me all this time without alerting him. You know I could just say Lord Vol-"

As the words left his mouth, Ulysses flicks his wand, opening a bright red line across Harry's face. Harry hisses and Hermione squeaks, but he presses a hand against her arms to keep her from stepping forward.

"Is that all you've got?" Harry says, acidly.

"If you know what is good for you, lad, the only thing you'll be saying to me is how to use that special wand of yours."

Harry and Hermione both skip a beat, their faces registering only confusion. Hermione steps forward, gently pushing through Harry's protective stance.

"What?"

"Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Your wand. It's defeated the Dark Lord before and I want to know your secret."

Harry glances at Hermione with a look that says, _How does he know about that? _She shakes her head imperceptibly. He turns back to Ulysses, letting his arms drop, but still keeping himself in between himself and Hermione.

"There isn't anything special about my wand."

"Right o mate, and I'm Severus Snape," squawks one of the unnamed Snatchers as he elbows his partner slyly.

"Shut it, Nox," growls Ulysses. His eyes never leaves Harry's.

"Now Harry, I consider myself a business man. I don't expect you to give me something for nothing."

"First of all, I have no idea what you're talking about. Second of all, what makes you think you have anything worth offering me anyway?"

Ulysses cracks an awful yellowed tooth grin, like a cat that has just swallowed a canary. Harry feels his stomach lurch.

He winks at Harry and with a flourish of his wand gestures to his lackeys to enter the cell.

Their sweetly foul smell fills the small space quickly, causing Hermione to make soft gagging sounds. Their fingers tap imaginary keys against the air and they shuffle on their feet like fighters ready to dance.

Uly turns his head as he climbs the stairs, his voice bouncing in uneven angles against the stone walls behind him.

"Because after a quarter hour of listening to young Ms. Granger screaming, I bet you'll take her life over a silly wand any day. Saavy?"


	5. To Darkness

_Disclaimers: HP + his ilk are still not mine. Just taking them out for a nice not so sunny stroll in my brain. _

_Following characters ARE all mine: Ulysses, Janus, Nox, Aeron and the rest of the Snatchers._

_Author's Note: H/Hr AND eventual R/Hr. Dark! Adult language and mature/graphic content ahead. _

_I know this isn't exactly the kind of epic update that you all deserve after such a long hiatus [crazy life + computer fail + corrupted files + crazy life (did I say that already?) = 0 fanfic writing time]. I broke the cardinal rule of all fanfic writers and started a story that I couldn't commit to updating regularly. I throw myself at the mercy of the court and plead temporary insanity. _

_Thank you, thank you, thank you for sticking around. (I have made it my new year's resolution to update more often!)_

_I had a rare few moments in between the chaos of the holidays and my travels to get out a short chapter. It's not perfect and I may go back and edit the hell out of this, but I hope you enjoy in the meantime. _

_Happy New Year. :o)_

_-SR_

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><p><strong>Chapter Five:<strong> To Darkness

**Words:** 1,146**  
><strong>

**Rating:** MA

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><p>One long wail echoes through the chamber like a claxon.<p>

It takes Hermione a moment to realize it is her own voice making that desperate sound.

Nox's hands are everywhere. "Just a little taste of what's comin'," he whispers into her hair.

She is fixed to her spot like an insect in amber, her mind unable to compute. She has only heard of men like this-warmongers and brutes-their predilections beyond the polite brutality of many of the Death Eaters, who prefer to let their minions do the dirty work. Who prefer to appreciate their acts of inhumanity from tidy box seats in the rafters. They are the worst of what war wrought: depraved opportunists with a taste for those who had no taste for them.

And until now, they had been characters in someone else's story.

"You touch her and I swear…" Harry growls. She watches him pull himself up to full height, his fists tightening into balls; his eyes an emerald tempest.

"You like to watch, Potter? Is that what you're into? I'm sure it could be arranged if you ask nicely."

Harry roars forward, curses firing blanks every which way. Without a wand and proper training, it is a rapid succession of empty threats that fizzle harmlessly in the air like dying sparklers.

In seconds, Nox's partner has Harry against the wall, his wand pressing painfully against his sternum. Harry is as coiled and tense as a basilisk, but makes no move. His eyes never leave Hermione.

Nox shakes his head, clucking his tongue like a hen. He pulls Hermione against him. He is soft and round in every place but one. "Aeron," he warns, as if he were somehow better than the scene before him.

Aeron presses his face close to Harry's, so close that he can smell his last meal on his breath. Cabbage and sausage, from the stench of it. Aeron presses his wand harder against Harry's chest. Softly, a light at its tip, the wand burns red and she hears the sizzle of Harry's thin shirt as it burns through the fabric. Brave as Harry is, he fights back an involuntary twitch as the spell starts to eat at his skin.

Hermione has had enough.

"St-top it. Stop it, please. I'll go with you. Just leave Harry alone."

"Hermione, no!"

"No, Harry. Keeping you alive is paramount. I have gotten you this far, I am not going to fail now. There is nothing else more important than that. Nothing."

Aeron does not move. The smell, something between boiled paint and bacon, fills the small space quickly.

Nox considers her request, using the tip of his wand to scratch the patchy blond hair on his temple. His vice grip on her arm never loosens.

"If you leave him alone, I'll go with you willingly. I'll do whatever you want. And that can't be said about the rest of the women you bring home…"

Nox snorts in acknowledgement and releases her from his grip. She places as much space between them as possible. Even if they allowed her a bath, which she wouldn't want to take anywhere within 20 kilometers of either of them, it would take her hours to scrub the oily feeling of disgust from where he touched her. When she is a safe distance from her captors, she shifts her gaze back to her best friend.

Harry's eyes have begun to water, but his anguished silence is indomitable.

"Nox." She says firmly, knowing that for this moment at least, they will allow her to be so.

Nox takes his time, but relents. "Uly wouldn't want us to kill the kid, anyway. He's got plans for 'im. Big ones."

Aeron removes the wand, blowing the smoke curling from it into Harry's face. It takes every bit of strength Harry has left to keep from ripping Aeron's smug grin off of his face. Instead he focuses on Hermione.

Right now, in this hell, there is only Hermione.

"Hermione, you don't have to do this. I'm not worth this…" He sways for a moment, unsteady on his feet, and grips the tattered rags of his shirt modestly as if momentarily embarrassed to be showing skin. Harry tries to close the distance between them, but Aeron plants a fist on the right side of his head. Wackspurts, as Luna would call them, fill his head and the waves of nausea return.

"Oi! I said to leave him alone!"

Nox ignores her pleas, shoving her towards the door. "Come on, pretty. Let's give you a tour of the house, shall we?"

"HERMIONE!"

Aeron elbows Harry in the face and blood splatters against the wall. His nose is surely broken and the crystalline darkness of unconsciousness dims his vision.

Nox forces Hermione to keep moving, whispering threats of the most depraved variety if she doesn't keep moving.

She turns her head to give Harry one last long glance before being swallowed up by the darkness...as he is swallowed up by his.


End file.
